


Home

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Anda/No/Wtf, Body Horror, Changelings, Child Death, Dubious Consent, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Gore, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, Monsters, Murder, Parent/Child Incest, Sex, Sex Pollen, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: A forgotten old contract comes due and pulls Marilyn halfway across the country and into a nightmare.TW: body horror, queen/drone incest, unsexy fertilization, dramatic sting at the end.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Home

The envelope was pale blue. Tony slid it across the table. He wore an odd expression, something like shame and annoyance, and maybe a hint of fear.

"They started calling in January." His voice matched his face. "I thought it was fake, but it's not. And it's ironclad. It doesn't matter if you don't remember signing it. You can't contest it."

Marilyn opened the envelope. His brow furrowed, scanning lines of legalese. There, at the bottom of each page, was his signature. The real one, not the one anybody could find on a fan photo and copy. This was going to seriously fuck up his schedule.

"So what's the venue?"

"There isn't one," Tony said, leaning forward. "The address is residential, just outside Canton, Ohio. There aren't any musician clauses either. In fact, per the contract, you're permitted one private security person. That's it. No band, no techs, no stylist, no costumes, no equipment."

"What the fuck?" He flipped through the remaining pages. "Why would I sign this? You're an idiot, Past Manson."

"I'm not disagreeing. But Present Manson needs to pack a bag and pick a bodyguard because the bus is leaving tomorrow morning."

//

He was taking a nap when they arrived. The air brakes popped and hissed. Moaning dramatically, Marilyn ran his fingers through his hair before heading toward the door. The light made him wince behind his sunglasses.

"What kind of Scooby-Doo bullshit is this?" he muttered.

The house was an enormous Victorian eyesore. It looked like it had been built in stages, with varying materials, and then left to rot for a decade or two. At least it cut an interesting silhouette.

Ned stepped around him and approached the house. He knocked loudly. A nicely dressed man answered and they spoke for a minute. Manson held back until Ned signalled for him.

"I'm Eric. A pleasure to see you again," the man said, extending his hand. "Do you still prefer Mr. Warner, or should we use your chosen name?"

"Whichever. I really don't mind."

Smiling, Eric led the men inside. The interior, at least, had been kept up. It was decorated for a seance. The crystals and singing bowls made Marilyn smirk, but the table with a Tarot spread still laid out drew an audible giggle.

"I know this is a very stereotypical setup, sir," Eric said over his shoulder. "It's necessary for us to cater to our clientele. Nowadays, people expect New Age trappings."

They arrived in a sitting room and their host gestured toward a long couch.

"What is it that you do?" Manson asked, taking a spot next to Ned.

"We perform magic, grant wishes, read portents. It's kind of a family business."

Eric closed the door they'd come in. He sat in an armchair and checked his watch. Marilyn followed suit. It was early.

"So, will I be working with a house band here?" he asked. "I'd like to meet them as soon as possible, go over the set list and my expectations. I don't usually work with set musicians. I'd also like to speak with your head of security, about searching the audience, purses, pockets-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Manson," Eric interrupted. "I think you misunderstand. The performance we need from you will not be a concert. It's more of a... theatrical gesture, I suppose… in that we don't expect your enthusiasm for the act itself, but we do hope that you can at least appreciate it as an act of creation."

Marilyn frowned. He was beginning to lose patience with the vague language. Before he could express it, a door on the other side of the room opened. A young woman entered, carrying a folder. She was lovely in a peasant blouse and distressed jeans. It was a notable contrast to the conservative clothes Eric was wearing.

"Ah!" Eric stood and offered her his chair. "Gentlemen, this is Layna, our archivist. She'll brief you before taking you downstairs."

She shook their hands and they exchanged pleasantries. She seemed very professional, though she couldn't have been more than 20. She took a seat and laid out a spread of photographs of couples standing in front of the house.

"Before we begin, just as a formality, could you please identify your family?"

As odd as the request was, Manson pointed out his parents. They were so young in the photograph. It must have been nearly as old as he was.

"When were they here?"

"Barbara was a client for many years. She was mostly interested in clairvoyance and spiritualism. We didn't meet Hugh until September of 1969. He didn't believe in the supernatural… but they were both in a state of desperation. They had lost their son, Brian."

Layna produced a death certificate. It appeared to be an original. It had his name on it. As he stared at it, Marilyn absently scratched at his shoulder.

"We would call it SIDS now," Layna continued. "He just didn't wake up. The Warners wanted us to return him. We drafted a contract for them to exhume the body and bring it to us. In exchange for their son, they would compel him to sign his own contract when he came of age. In addition to the usual fee, of course."

"Of course. So you raised the baby from the dead." Manson's quiet sarcasm covered his uneasiness. There was something familiar in what she was saying. He almost remembered something, but couldn't quite pull it into focus.

"Of course not," she chuckled. "That's beyond our capabilities. We simply gave them you."

"Uh huh. Well, you'll be pleased to know I lived happily ever after. Listen. We're gonna need to get this performance done so I can go back to work."

"Certainly. Follow me, please."

Layna led him to the door she'd come in. Ned stayed close. Together, they went down a curving hallway and down a flight of stairs. She motioned toward a doorway.

"You can change in here."

"Thank you," Marilyn said softly.

He pushed Ned inside. The room was completely empty. He turned back in time to see the door close. A lock clicked. He tried the handle. It was firm.

"Hey! Wrong room, lady! There's nothing in here!"

No one answered. Ned just shrugged. Mumbling about incompetence, Manson checked his watch. There was still time for them to realize that they hadn't provided him with a stage costume.

While they waited, he started some music on his phone. He leaned against the wall. The pressure made him aware of a tingling in his shoulder. He scratched through his shirt and jacket.

The itch only became more intense and spread to the other shoulder. Soon he shrugged the jacket off. He still couldn't satisfy it.

"You got fingernails, Ned?" he asked, unbuttoning his shirt. "My back itches like a motherfucker. Scratch it and I'll give you a raise."

The bodyguard shrugged and did his best. His nails were short, but they provided some relief. Still, the feeling didn't go away.

"Maybe you're allergic to something here, boss. You got welts coming up."

As soon as Ned backed off, the itch redoubled. Marilyn pressed his back into the wall and rubbed against the bricks. In some part of his brain, he knew he needed to stop, but the urge was overwhelming.

"Uh… boss? You're bleeding."

"What?"

Manson turned to look at the wet bricks. Ned cursed and stumbled backward. Marilyn bit his tongue. He must've damaged his tattoo. Great. He held still and let Ned take a picture, then took the phone from him.

His back wasn't damaged. It was shredded. Between ribbons of skin, something was showing through. Long black lines. He reached back and felt for them. They were stiff, round, and rough. He bent forward and felt them sliding free of his flesh.

"Jesus Christ!" Ned whispered. "Are those fucking quills?"

"I feel sick."

Manson fumbled along the wall and knelt in the corner. His wounds didn't hurt. In fact, the lack of itching was wonderful. But something inside was squirming. He closed his eyes. In the static behind his lids, he saw himself at his parents' kitchen table, signing sheets of paper while they looked on.

His muscles spasmed. He could feel the jerky movements, his legs extending, hands opening and closing, fingers digging into something soft. The room was loud and confused. He couldn't see or think clearly. It was brick and red and dark.

"Oh, good. You've changed." Layna's voice cut through the fog.

"Did I... have a sh… seizure?" he asked weakly.

"No. Here. Let us help you."

Hands hooked under Marilyn's arms and lifted him up. He struggled to get his feet underneath him. The room was blurred and dim. He could barely see a difference between the face in front of him and the wall beyond.

"Mmm… can't see…"

"Your corneas are shedding. Keep your eyes open, please."

He tried hard to hold still. She held his chin with one hand. He could feel the other gently touching his eye. It felt like removing a contact lens, but sticky. Something gave way and he blinked quickly.

"Good. Now the other."

He could see Layna now. Her mouth was slightly open, as though she were applying mascara. She cleared the other eye and wiped his cheek affectionately. He looked away from her and caught a flood of red on the floor.

It was Ned. It had been Ned. Now it was a familiar outfit full of raspberry jam. Chunks of bone stuck through the fabric. He looked like he'd been crushed in an industrial press.

"What the fuck happened?"

"It's ok." Eric, who was keeping him steady, smiled. "You didn't have control. We'll take care of it."

Manson pulled away and stumbled. He reached for his phone, still playing his Boredom Mix. In the camera, he could see his bloody face, pale blue eyes staring intensely, quills rising from his shoulders.

"What's happening to me?!"

"You're responding to the queen," Layna said, stepping to the side to let Eric through the door. "I told you. You're one of us. We placed you with the Warners when their son died."

Running footfalls echoed into the room. It sounded as though several people were rushing to get something done… if they were people.

"I was a changeling?"

"You were a _gift._ Barbara and Hugh loved you. You may not have been their kind, but you were as much their son as you are the queen's. Now _this_ family needs you."

Eric returned, a bit breathless, and announced, "She's ready."

Layna reached for Marilyn's hand. He let her guide him out of the room. A crowd gathered to watch them start down a second set of stairs. He felt as though they were miles underground, light-years from his life. He shivered in the damp, musty air. His quills rattled. 

Layna gestured toward the door at the bottom and stepped back. He pushed it open. It led to a bedroom, lit with candles.

"Welcome home."

The old woman's voice was exotic and comforting, like nutmeg, like autumn leaves. He turned toward the sound. She was white-haired and bloated, with a robe pulled tightly around her belly. She approached.

"You are magnificent, Marilyn. Your plumage…" Her hand stroked his quills. The touch was electric. "I had hoped you were a breeding male. Of all of my children, I hoped for you most of all. As much as it hurt to give you away all those years ago, seeing you now, I know I made the right decision."

"Children…"

"I am the queen. Everyone here is my child."

She took his hands and stepped backward, toward the canopy bed in the center of the room. Manson stumbled. He felt drunk, confused. He made an uncomfortable sound when she began to undress him, but he didn't try to stop her.

Her wrinkled hands found his manhood nearly hard. He didn't know why. It seemed wrong.

"Come to me," she urged, laying back on the bed and opening her robe. "I've saved my eggs for you, Marilyn."

Her skin was stretched over round bulges that moved. Blue veins and purple stretch marks undulated. Somehow it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He followed her, kneeling between her legs on the bed. He kissed her deeply.

"Help me," the queen whispered into his mouth. "Help me lay. You know how."

His quills scraped like dry reeds as he arched. He slid into her body, could feel the large, slimy masses around his flesh. With a loud groan, he began to climax.

As he spilled, his arms gripped her tightly and squeezed, a motion that seemed familiar. She moaned ecstatically. The eggs shifted and began to emerge. He rocked his hips, letting them slide onto the bed one at a time. Still, his orgasm kept going, bathing each one in his seed as it left her.

Marilyn lost count of the eggs as he milked them out of her belly. They seemed to stick to each other and pile up around his ankles. Instinctively, he moved his feet, gathering them closer together.

When they had nothing left, he collapsed. The queen held him and stroked his hair. For a long while, he had no thoughts. Everything seemed good and right in the world. He felt a wholeness that he'd always chased and never caught.

Somewhere in the groggy afterglow, his mind woke. He jerked and tried to sit up. His hands slipped on the loose skin that pooled beneath him. What had he done? The queen… Ned… his tattered back… It had to be a nightmare. His body shook, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Shhh," the old woman soothed. "Hush now, Marilyn. You've done your duty to me."

She pressed her lips to his and the room went quiet.

//

"What? Bullshit." Tony poured two fingers of vodka and slid the glass to his client.

"I'm telling you, it's true. I woke up from this disgusting nightmare, and we're there. The GPS says we're there. But there's nothing. Just a little clearing in the woods."

"What happened to uh…"

"Ned?" Manson offered. "Yeah, I don't know. We hit a strip club in Canton, since it was just up the road. The driver said he saw him with some girl. And he never came back."

He stretched his arms overhead. His shoulder popped loudly.

"Woah. You ok, Mazz? Need me to look at that?" Tony set his drink down.

"It's fine. I gotta piss, though."

Marilyn made his way to the bathroom. With the door closed, he pulled his t-shirt up. His back and shoulders looked just as they always had. He flexed a little, just to be sure. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Before going back, he checked himself in the mirror. There was nothing in his teeth. His lipstick looked good. He met his own gaze in the glass and blinked. His contact lens slid, just a little bit, revealing the pale blue iris underneath.


End file.
